


Proportionate

by Zeke Black (istia)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M, Old West, POV Chris Larabee, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19756033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/Zeke%20Black
Summary: Words aren't always necessary.





	Proportionate

The dusty prairie schooner had been parked out front of the Undertaker's for going on half an hour now. Chris had run out of things to say to pale, weary Cora Hanrahan stoically standing at its rear. His eyes shifted back down to the black dog, about three-quarters grown, tied to the back board. It looked dusty and tired, too, despite its youth. And thirsty, its tongue lolling out as it panted in the midday heat.

The husband was inside with Nathan and Josiah, saying a final goodbye to their little girl as she was nailed into her coffin. The woman had just shaken her head to her husband's mute look, and even Chris could read her expression clear as day saying she'd already said her goodbyes and couldn't bear another glance at her lost child. They'd arrived here in a rush two days ago, their daughter burning up from an infection in an injured foot, a terrified dash from their isolated farm in search of help. They'd found Nathan, but he'd had to give way to Josiah all too soon; it was too late for his healing skills. There'd be a funeral, once the father could bear to let the lid be nailed down, then they'd be on their way.

Heading home, she'd volunteered a few minutes earlier in Chris's self-appointed vigil with her. East. Back to Pennsylvania farming country, where there was less land and more competition, but there were also neighbors and family and help closer than a day's frantic drive. They'd thrown the necessities into the wagon before setting out; the rest could rot or be scavenged by folks passing through who might need it. Or used by whoever took over the land they couldn't bear to return to, their dreams about to be buried in the cold dark under a blazing desert sun.

He looked up as he felt her gaze on his face.

"Not sure he'll make it all the way home." She nodded at the dog. "He has the makings of a real fine watch dog, though. Be a big fellow when he's done growing, too."

Chris studied the large paws.

"Too big for where we're going, I think." Her voice broke in a tremble and she cleared her throat. "If you knew of someone who might need a good dog round these parts, it'd be a kindness. We'll have to sell the wagon, take the train--there's so much to see to." The tremble was back.

Chris nodded. "I could use a good dog. Give him a good home."

She breathed a long sigh and looked a little lighter. "Good," she said. Just that as she bent to unfasten the rope and handed it over.

Chris took it and bent to offer his fingers to the dog, who came forward willingly enough to sniff them, then let Chris rub his silky head and long ears. When he straightened, the dog accepted his new place at Chris's side. The woman watched, the first hint of something happier in her expression, though she was still tense.

She looked up and met Chris's eyes. "There's this, too, if you could--if you know anybody." She reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out a small hamper. She reached into it and drew out a kitten, all large eyes and ginger fur standing on end and open mouth expressing its opinion of the world aggressively. Mrs. Hanrahan looked at it with such sorrow in her reddened eyes that Chris's throat tightened in sympathy.

"My little girl loved it so. John can't bear to look at it now. I'm afraid he might drown it in the first river we come to. He's not an unkind man. It's just...the pain--" Her awkward words stumbled to a halt.

Chris reached out and took the small bundle as the woman poured it gently into his hands.

"I've been needing a mouser out at my ranch."

Relief washed over her pale face like a break in the clouds. "Thank you." Her voice was low. "My daughter called it Florrie, though it's actually a boy cat." A smile quivered on her mouth before she pressed her lips together.

Chris bent to show the kitten to the dog and the dog to the kitten. The kitten stopped yowling and batted at the dog's dangling ear while the dog gave the kitten a long, wet lick that it accepted as perfectly natural. So they were all right together, then.

The door of the Undertaker's opened. Mrs. Hanrahan shoved the hamper back into the wagon and Chris put his hand holding the now quiet kitten into the pocket of his duster as John Hanrahan followed Josiah outside, Nathan behind them. Hanrahan went straight to his wife without seeming to see anything else, and took her hand.

"Undertaker'll bring the--" His breath hitched. "Bring her to the church on a wagon. We can bury her now, if you're ready."

She nodded and they walked down the street toward the church together, hand in hand, Josiah showing them the way.

Nathan paused beside Chris, his eyes, as tired as the bereaved parents', watching their slow walk. "They'll probably blame themselves all the rest of their lives for not being able to save her, even though there weren't nothing they could've done better."

Chris closed his mind to parental grief and the guilt that shaded the edges of every day with darkness.

Nathan was looking at the dog. "Got yourself a new friend?"

"Yup. Heading out to my place so he don't think of trying to follow after them when they go. You boys can handle things here all right?"

He and Nathan walked down the street together, the dog trotting along happily enough.

"Sure. John Hanrahan is insisting they'll leave immediately after the service. Reckon they'll camp a few miles outside town tonight, get an early start tomorrow. Maybe they'll heal better being alone tonight. They seem to want to get as far away from where the accident happened as quickly as they can."

"Well, you know where I'll be." He nodded to Nathan as they separated, Nathan heading to the church and Chris and the dog to the livery.

First thing he did was shut both of them into an empty stall with a bowl of water. They both dove into it, sharing without any animosity, and Chris listened to their slurps as he saddled his black. When he was ready, he looked into the stall. They'd left an inch or so of water in the bowl, so they'd had enough for now. He opened the stall door and scooped up the kitten as it darted for the opening. He plopped it into his saddlebag on a nest of his spare shirt and his traveling towel, then tied the strings so it could peer out the edge, but not escape. Its complaints made him smile. This tiny thing knew what it wanted and danged well wasn't going to be shy about letting the entire bitching world know.

The dog was easier. Chris tied the rope to his saddle horn, mounted, then gently urged the dog to follow as they walked out the back of the livery and down the road. It'd be a slow trip at first, but he reckoned he'd be able to free the dog once they were well away from town and it'd keep following as he moved into a trot. Especially since the kitten was keeping everyone in earshot aware of its existence at the top of its small lungs, providing what was likely a familiar beacon for the dog to follow.

_Damned pissy and bossy_ , he thought, contentment seeping into him as he escaped the town. _Wonder who that would remind a body of?_ He grinned.

Finally, a mile out from town, he stopped to get down and remove the rope from around the dog's neck, then whistled as he mounted and set off again toward home. The dog ran in a couple of wide, hectic, leg-stretching circles, then raced to catch up and never strayed farther than a few yards the entire rest of the trip.

At home, he took care of his horse, then took the dog into the shack and freed the kitten. He gave them a bowl of chopped raw venison to share and another bowl of water, then cooked his own meal. By the time he was done and enjoying an after-supper smoke, the kitten was sitting beside him on the table giving itself a thorough wash and the dog was curled up, muzzle resting on his paws and eyes closed, on the oval rag rug Ezra had insisted on putting inside the front door to "civilize" the place. At least it was finally serving a decent, actual purpose.

He spent the next week at the shack. Vin visited a couple of times and Buck once on a detour home from a certain house of his acquaintance in the hills near the Mexican border. Josiah and Nathan sent their regards from a town in a quiet spell, and JD, Vin told him with amusement, was spending his time trying not to be bested by Casey at everything from rock skipping to hill climbing.

Ezra was in St. Louis visiting his mother and probably getting up to no good with her, but as long as he didn't arrive home shot to pieces or with a marshal with a warrant on his heels, none of them cared.

The timing was good because a week, as it turned out, was all he needed. The dog was an apt and eager pupil. He learned the few necessary hand signals Chris taught him and answered instantly to Chris's whistle within a few days. He was young enough to be easily trained and had a nature that shivered with excitement at pleasing. The last couple of days was just practice for him, reinforcing the lessons so they'd become second nature. He wasn't full grown yet and would need more working with, but he growled low and menacingly with all the show of a dangerous animal at a subtle hand gesture. He stopped instantly at another gesture, and sat and lay down right on cue. Damned fine guard dog, and he'd be even more powerful as he finished his growing, his long bones gaining their adult weight.

Chris returned to town on the morning of the eighth day. He took care of his horse, then walked to the saloon with his saddlebags over his shoulder and the dog matching his steps like he was glued to Chris's left leg. No rope necessary now, nor ever would be again. Chris paused on the boardwalk as he spotted Ezra walking from the stagecoach, small carpetbag in hand. Chris waited, drawing on his cigarillo, as Ezra, oblivious, approached, head down as he read the latest Clarion News. When he was a man's height away, Chris signalled and the dog instantly emitted his low, reverberating growl. Ezra came to an instant stop and his head snapped up.

He stared at the dog, then at Chris, then back at the dog. Bared teeth, hackles raised, deep growls rolling from the chest. The two stared at each other for a long, tense handful of seconds before Chris gave the stop signal and the dog instantly relaxed into his usual friendly, puppyish self.

"Good lord. What on earth is _that_?"

"Hell, I dunno, Ezra," Chris drawled. "Four paws, long ears, scary teeth: what on earth could it be?"

"Hah-hah. Hilarious. You are not." He shook his head, a grin curving his mouth. "You've actually acquired a creature black as yourself, and apparently just as black-souled and dangerous. What's it called, Baal?"

"Dug."

Ezra blinked his gaze up to him. "Doug? As in Douglas?"

"No, as in he's dug a lot of holes in the dirt out at my place and gets a whole whack of joy out of doing it."

Ezra treated Chris to one of his tartest looks. "Dug the Dog? Dog Dug? Duggie Dog? Good heavens above. Take my advice, my friend: never name anything again."

Chris smiled. "You can rename him. He's yours. Though he does answer to Dug now."

Ezra stared at Chris. "What d'you mean, he's mine?"

Chris glanced away and had to clear his throat before he could speak. "He's a good guard dog. I'll show you the hand commands. Most of the time, he probably won't even need to do nothing: just that growl of his should be enough to stop any more--"

A lump in his throat made him stumble to a halt.

Ezra's voice was quiet: "--miscreants who want to shoot me as full of holes as a watering can because I'm better at cards than they are."

Chris nodded. He got control of his voice. "You get yourself in chancy situations." He flicked the end of the cigarillo into the street and shrugged. "I know by now that's just how you are and how you're always gonna be. Dug'll help keep trouble from starting in the first place; hell, just having him by your side should be a loud and clear warning even to a liquored-up blockhead."

He reached down and fondled Dug's ears. "He's a fine fellow. Once he gets to know you, knows you're his to look out for, he won't never let you down."

Ezra leaned over and their hands touched momentarily as they both stroked Dug's silky head. While their heads were close, before Chris straightened, Ezra murmured, "So I was right, then: he is indeed just like you," and his smile was a shaft of pleasure piercing Chris's chest.

At that moment, the kitten woke up and made its presence known. Ezra had crouched down to rub Dug with both hands, murmuring to him, looking into his eyes, finding the sweet spot behind his ears that made Dug's eyes close in bliss. As Chris lifted the kitten from the saddlebag and set it on the boardwalk, Ezra stared as the ginger mite shook itself, then walked over to rub against Dug's haunch, mewing up at Ezra imperiously.

"You can rename that, too, if you want. Florrie ain't really doing it for me."

Ezra shot him a glance, then craned his head for a moment before he stood. "Unless I'm massively ill-informed on these matters--which I don't believe I am--is this not a male creature?"

Chris couldn't keep a hint of sadness out of his smile. "Little girl who named it didn't care about that, I reckon."

"Ah, I sense a story there."

Chris watched as Dug leaned against Ezra's legs and Ezra bent down to stroke a hand down his side once more, slow and firm. The kitten set about exploring the hem of Ezra's pants. Ezra raised his foot and tried to shake it off.

"Please tell me this abominable little thing isn't also mine."

"Nah, I'm keeping that one. They're good together, though. When Dug's digging holes, the kitten's out there pouncing on bugs and worms he unearths."

Ezra laughed. "Truly a dynamic team. Clearly they will need to spend a good deal of time together, then. As responsible caretakers, we'll have to ensure they don't become strangers to each other."

Chris grinned and bent to scoop the kitten up and drop it into his shirt's breast pocket, where it squirmed until it could stick its head out, but then settled contentedly. He held Ezra's warm gaze for a moment, then tilted his head toward the saloon. As they approached the batwing doors, Dug between them close enough to bump against one of them, then the other, Chris caught a glimpse of JD inside.

In the act of pushing the doors open, Ezra said, in a light, amused voice, "At least you won't ever be able to deny now that mine is indubitably a good deal larger than yours."

Inside, JD made a choked sound, then rushed across the room, boots tapping rapidly on the wooden floor, calling, "Buck!" in a voice that squeaked.


End file.
